Thomas Mallon: Finale: A Novel of the Reagan Years

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Inside the house, the tight ship of the party was sailing through the last minutes of cocktails before the dinner bell was rung precisely at nine. Annenberg showed Northrop’s Thomas Jones a big jade water buffalo, a tabletop sculpture from China. “It took two first-class plane tickets to get it over here!” Nearby, Kirk Douglas told Lee Annenberg, not for the first time, about an encounter he’d had early in his career with her uncle, Harry Cohn, at Columbia Pictures. Caspar Weinberger, not far from the water buffalo, eyed some Chinese figures from the same dynasty that had produced those now-famous terra-cotta soldiers. He looked around for Nixon, his former and favorite boss, but didn’t see him.

Once dinner began there were ten people seated at each of nine round tables. The only married couple permitted to occupy the same one were Jimmy and Gloria Stewart, since without her by his side he would get even more tongue-tied than usual. Jerry Zipkin, out from New York as a treat for Nancy, was less than pleased to be across from the Stewarts; the actor was such a straight arrow — worse than Reagan himself — that Zipkin would have to keep his claws retracted. Right now he could see Gloria experiencing a sudden surprise at being so close to the ground, the way everyone did the moment they sat down here. Would it be too bitchy for Jimmy’s taste to mention what Ted Graber had once told Nancy? Namely, that all the furniture in the house had been designed to cut guests down to the owners’ size (five-seven and five-four)?

Lee Annenberg wore a gold dress with white appliqués — very Palm Springs. Nancy watched her stand up for the most formal moment of the evening, the introduction of Ronnie, who would make the predinner toast. Lee said simply, “The president of the United States.”

Towering over her with his raised champagne flute, Ronnie began: “Looking out at so many familiar and, yes, beloved faces, I’m struck by how much I’ve depended on all of you throughout the years. Jimmy,” he said, pointing his glass in Stewart’s direction, “I don’t suppose you could join the new minority in the Senate next week and reenact that famous Mr. Smith filibuster from time to time, whenever I need you on an issue?”

Everyone laughed, and then the president made his little tribute to the Annenbergs: “You know, back in Washington we live over the store, but the only Being who lives above this house is God, up there in the pure desert sky. Maybe that’s why we all feel such peace and contentment every time we come here. They say that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Well, Lee and Walter have never flung out anything but their arms, to their country and their friends. Everyone here will have a wonderful year in 1987, because it will have started here, with them.”

“Hear, hear,” said everyone, raising their glasses.

Nancy had given him a little help with the toast — she herself said that last line to Lee every year — but she now worried that Ronnie seemed so flat. He hadn’t added any little zingers of his own to the bit about Jimmy; nothing about Walter’s wealth or Kirk Douglas’s dimple, the sort of stuff he usually put in.

The waiters set down glasses of Mondavi chenin blanc 1984. “Great year ,” said Merv, pointing to the label. Everyone knew he meant the president’s reelection landslide, not the vintage.

“A better year than the one he just had!” cackled Malcolm Forbes.

Senator Laxalt, who believed the billionaire to be as full of hot air as the balloons he piloted, turned his head away.

As the suprêmes de volaille arrived at the tables, Eva Gabor, on the other side of Walter Annenberg from Nancy, asked him, “Is zee library all done?” They had not seen each other since Betsy Bloomingdale’s dinner back in August. Charmed by her accent, and the Green Acres guilelessness of the question, Annenberg chuckled. “Well, it’s not exactly like raising a barn. But it’s going well.” Nancy, who would have preferred almost any other topic, saw him looking in Nixon’s direction and wondered if he was thinking about the kind of political catastrophe that puts an end to donations.

The eating was quick and sparing, as if to consume too much of the beautifully presented food would be to insult it. By the time the ice cream soufflé came around with the petit fours, people had already begun table-hopping, and Tony Rose’s band could be heard warming up in the living room. Nancy made her way over to George Shultz and asked, as brightly as she could, “Save me a dance? I told Helena I’ll get her one with Kirk Douglas if she’ll relinquish you.”

“Happy New Year, my dear,” the secretary replied, with a kiss that felt consoling.

“Do you think we’re going to get past this?” Nancy asked him.

The question was wistful, self-indulgent, and unanswerable. The only person to whom it might reasonably be addressed was Joan Quigley. What now made asking it even worse was the moment of hesitation she saw George exhibit before he answered “Of course.” His sympathetic, canine eyes betrayed uncertainty. She kissed him back and then turned her attention to Nixon, halfway across the room, urging him with a tilt of her head to go talk to Ronnie.

There was already a line of people waiting to have a word with the president, who’d yet to get up from his seat beside Lee. Nixon didn’t relish the situation, but knew he’d better make his move before the dancing reached full swing and the music claimed all of Reagan’s available hearing. Everyone allowed him to go to the head of the line, with courteous cries of “Another president!” and “Happy New Year, sir!”

“I got to take a stroll with the first lady this morning,” said Nixon, once he reached Reagan.

“She told me,” said the president.

“She’s got great political instincts — same as Pat,” said Nixon.

Unexpectedly, the remark produced a frown from the sitting president. Nixon offered a bit of elaboration to the two CEO wives listening in: “Pat told me not to run for governor out here in ’62, and she was right. I was lucky to carry Palm Springs!” He was sweating, trying too hard with the least hostile audience one could assemble. But it seemed impossible to engage Reagan himself. Nixon would say that the president’s mood was off, but he wasn’t sure that Reagan even had moods. He decided against asking for a private word tomorrow morning, let alone tonight.

Soon enough everyone, even the current president, had moved to the living room’s vast pink marble floor. Charlie Wick, a frustrated musician, borrowed one instrument after another from members of the band, taking a turn on each, even while the fellows were in the middle of a number. Between two old Glenn Miller songs, Bob Hope grabbed the microphone and said, “It’s great to see the president. I haven’t had the chance to thank him for backing off that agreement in Iceland. If he and Gorbachev had signed it, they’d have put me out of business. And if I can’t go entertain soldiers, I lose my last chance to sneak off with Morgan Fairchild!”

Reagan leaned down to Lee Annenberg, still beside him, and asked if she could repeat the joke. Dolores Hope playfully pushed her husband away from the mic and by prearrangement with the band began singing “Why Can’t You Behave?” When she finished, Tony Rose had his boys go into a Duke Ellington number, which prompted Nixon — still in the effortfully upbeat mode the CEO wives had induced — to take Eva Gabor out onto the dance floor. Amidst applause, he told her, “You know, I’m the man who brought dancing to Whittier College.”

“Really?” she asked, uncomprehendingly.

Nixon just smiled, not having the patience to go into the whole Quaker business.